


All Your Words Are But to Say: You Are a Woman

by Nerdanelparmandil



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, F/M, Finwëan Ladies Week 2019, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-18 16:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20642192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdanelparmandil/pseuds/Nerdanelparmandil
Summary: Works dedicated to the women of the House of Finwë.Chapter 1: Míriel receives a visitor.Chapter 2: Indis tells her tale, from Cuiviénen to her separation from Finwë.Chapter 3: Some scenes in the life of Findis.Chapter 4: The events of the First Age, from Lalwen's point of view. How she became queen, and lost her kingdom. How she endured to see a new day rise, at last.Chapter 5: Elenwë discovers her feelings for Turukáno, eventually. | Eldalótë was a simple baker's daughter, and princes did not fall in love with commoners. Or did they? | Naltanis feels her son Tyelperinquar's death and seeks the comfort of someone who can understand her grief. | It takes a while for Amarië to understand why Findaráto has become a stranger to her.





	1. Family (Míriel)

**Author's Note:**

> "All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more." - Eowyn's speech to Aragorn in The Return of the King expresses also a sentiment, which, in my headcanon, is shared by many of the women who have been left behind in Valinor, or have been silenced and ignored by historiography. I keep this as main background theme for this collection of stories about our princesses.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

As she tied the last knot of the tapestry, the ship carrying the last living members of the house of Finwë docked in Avallónë.

So the stories would later call them. Míriel looked at the two faces, identical in shape, and her heart constricted. She could trace every single line back to an ancestor. The stern jaw of Finwë, the lips of Beren, the eyes of Lúthien. She knew every intimate detail of those faces, having woven them over and over again through the long ages, as had been her duty.

It was a fine day in Valinórë. The sun shone bright and high in the cloudless sky. The warm air came in through the high windows and carried whiffs of roses and sea-salt. Míriel never understood Vairë’s love for that particular smell, brought to her Halls specifically by the winds of Manwë, which blew straight from the eastern coast, raging over the great uplands behind the Pelori. No Elda dwelled there, for these winds were too strong and cold, and storms of incredible violence were frequent. Manwë’s reign in those regions was absolute. But by the time the winds reached Vairë’s Halls and rose-gardens, they were but breezes, carrying with them the bitter taste of the sea, and the humid scent of wet wood.

A fine day, and yet. Their arrival in Aman meant that their dear sister had passed at last, and the joy for their return mingled once again with endless grief.

How long will it take for the house of Finwë to find peace?

Míriel stood up and rolled her shoulders, easing the tension in her neck. Only one tapestry remained, yet it would be the longest and most difficult one.

Before she even reached the chest where she kept her balls of yarn ,something in the air of the room shifted, and Míriel’s back straightened almost unconsciously.

“My Lady. Welcome,” she said without turning. In two steps she reached her chest, opened it and rummaged until she realised that she was out of blue yarn.

“It is a most wonderful work, my friend.”

The Valie’s soft voice was reminiscent of that of a child, and Míriel wondered at her good humour.

“There are news for me, I deem.”

Vairë hummed, a pleased smile curving her lips.

Míriel looked from her to the finished tapestry spread on the table. “I am sufficiently satisfied. But I ran out of blue yarn. Again.” She wringed her hands in a gesture of impatience and annoyance as Vairë’s face became almost too radiant for the eye.

“You will not need it anymore.”

Míriel dug her nails into her flesh for a moment then let her hands fall limp at her sides. “What do you mean, my lady? Am I dismissed?”

“No, my dear friend, but your work is complete. And you may walk again among the living.”

At these words, Míriel felt a surge of white-hot fury hit her. “Complete? No! Not while one of them still roams in the East.”

The light around Vairë’s form dimmed, and her features became visible again, although she had abandoned the guise of a young _nis_. Now she looked like an old crone, the likes of which Míriel had seen only among the Humans she had embroidered in some of her works. Yet, the longer she looked at the Valie, the more her form became uncanny, with her limbs too long and thin, the skin flickering between a wrinkled and blemished state, or smooth and spotless as the petals of one of those roses she liked so much. Her eyes one moment were dark pools and the next became white and unseeing as if she were a mere blind woman.

Despite the long years spent together, the Valie’s uncertain form always managed to fill Míriel with discomfort and subtle terror.

“I cannot see him,” said Vairë, her voice a strange wail that made Míriel’s skin crawl.

She frowned, “How is it possible, my lady?”

Vairë shook her head, “I cannot see beyond this strange veil. He is behind it, I know, but-”

Míriel sighed and sank into her chair, “I can feel him, however. I know he is alive.”

Vairë fixed her gaze on Míriel, her head tilted to the side like a bird.

“He is my grandson. Part of my _fëa _is connected to his. You know this.”

Vairë laughed, “Of course, but I always forget how strong the bond between parent and child is.”

Míriel shrugged, “Þerindë I am, and history is what I embroider. I will not cease. As long as they are in your husband’s keeping, I will do it for them. They have a right to know.”

“That will take a very long time.”

Míriel jerked her head, letting her unbound hair cover her face, “That depends on your husband,” she said dryly.

“Perhaps,” the Valie’s voice seemed amused, “How will you tell his tale if he is unreachable?”

“I will find a way, my lady.”

“As you wish. You are, of course, welcome to stay as long as you desire, my friend. And you may also receive visitors, if that is what pleases you.”

Míriel arched an eyebrow at the Valie’s words, “Dead or living?”

But Vairë grinned and stayed silent. Míriel huffed, “Very well. I still need that blue yarn.”

With a laugh, Vairë disappeared, leaving behind a pile of yarn of every shade of blue. Muttering to herself, Míriel picked up the pile and dumped it into her chest. A golden glimmer caught her eyes. She dove her hand in the pile, searching for something resembling a jewel, perhaps, but there was only soft wool under her palm. Pushing aside the balls on the surface, she discovered that among the blues Vairë had left her a considerable amount of golden thread, as soft and light as wool, yet glinting in the sun as brightly as the metal.

She stared at the yarn, confused, until a thought hit her.

“Gold-cleaver, indeed!” she laughed.

*

Her first living visitor was, surprisingly, her daughter-in-law. She had expected someone like Galadriel, or even Arafinwë, whose gifts of foresight were not so dissimilar to her own. Yet, Nerdanel it was who first crossed the threshold to her weaving room, her warm brown eyes roaming and pausing over her tools, before settling on the unfinished tapestry on the loom. Míriel saw her eyes glaze over and something akin to shock flicker across her face, but it lasted only an instant. Nerdanel soon bowed her head and curtsied.

“My lady. I hope I am not interrupting.”

Míriel gestured for her to come inside, while she prepared another chair beside the hearth, where lively fire kept the room warm. Outside the clouds were getting darker and heavier with rain.

“Welcome, Nerdanel. I trust your journey went well. And I am Míriel, not ‘my lady’. Tea?” she gestured to the low table where a teapot was always ready, one of the many wonders of the Weaver's Halls

Nerdanel nodded, a slow smile fighting its way on her lips while she busied herself with arranging the pillows on the chair, and sat down.

If Míriel had to be honest, she had expected Nerdanel to be more nervous than she appeared. Instead, the woman’s face betrayed nothing else than curiosity, and her posture was open and relaxed. Míriel studied her, mentally going over the faces of her sons to find the traits they had in common, and decided that she looked much lovelier and _alive_ than in her tapestries. How she must have looked like when she had been a maiden, with the joy and enthusiasm of youth, before the numerous pregnancies had sapped her spirit! Yet, she did not seem diminished, and Míriel felt a stab of unwanted jealousy between her ribs.

How absurd, that she would be jealous of her son’s wife and not of Indis. But the Vanya had been an old friend, and had loved Finwë as much as she. It was much easier to look at this woman, instead, of which she knew but what stories told, and envy her strength.

But what need was there for this jealousy? She had not birthed someone like Fëanáro, so there was that.

Yet, Míriel could not but feel petty for this thought, and knew that it was wrong to think of her grandchildren as lesser than their father.

_And there is much more to a woman than her children. I should know that._

“So, how did you know you could visit me?”

Nerdanel took a small sip of her tea, her brow furrowed, “I did not know.”

“Oh?”

She shook her head, “This is not the first time I come here, but I have never been allowed to see you. You can imagine my surprise today.”

Míriel pressed her lips together and let out a long sigh. She would need to have a talk with Lady Vairë. “Why did you want to see me?” she asked.

Nerdanel lowered her gaze, running a finger over the brim of her teacup. “I wanted to get to know you, I think,” her eyes darted to Míriel’s face, “We are family, after all.”

Family! What meaning had that word for Míriel! It was a concept so complicated for her, that she could not grasp exactly what Nerdanel meant with it. Were they supposed to get along and even become friends on the basis of their relation? Was their being _relatives_ a reason enough to get to know each other?

It made little sense and that more than anything frustrated her. Something must have shown on her face, because Nerdanel hastily amended, “That is, if you want to, lady Míriel. I would not want to presume-”

“Yet, you did.”

Of all the things she could have said… _I have spent too many years alone with only the Weaver as company. I am butchering this conversation!_

Nerdanel regarded her for some moments, and Míriel felt as if she were able to pierce her very _fëa_. “May I speak bluntly, lady Míriel?” she said at length.

Míriel waved a hand, “I would prefer it, yes.”

“Very well,” she smoothed the fabric of her trousers, “I came here for my son.”

Almost involuntarily, Míriel’s eyes went to the unfinished blue and golden tapestry, “What?”

“Makalaurë. You have been tasked with the recording of the deeds of the house of Finwë, were you not? And the last living members of that house – our house – have returned, or so people say. Yet, you and I both know very well that there is still someone who is alive somewhere and has every right to be considered part of the family, however dispossessed he may be. No Vala, no Elda has been able, so far, to tell me where he is, or whether he is even allowed to come home.”

“And so you come to me, looking for an answer.”

“Partially, yes.”

“Anything else?”

Nerdanel raised her chin, assuming a defiant expression, “I am also here so that I could talk with someone about my family.”

“And share your grief?”

“Grief? No! If I wanted to do that, I could simply go to Anairë or my daughter in law, they know enough of grief, similar to my own.”

“So you do not want to get to know me?”

“Oh, but I do!” Nerdanel threw her head back and laughed, “And I am doing that already, right now.”

“How so?”

“We are having a conversation, are we not?”

“Yes, but that is-” Míriel narrowed her eyes, “And what have you learned so far?”

“Well, I have learnt that you are as inquisitive and brusque as my late husband, and quite passionate about your art. I have also learnt that the idea of family confuses you, although you are not adverse to it, if the way you have first welcomed me was anything to go by. And also, the row of portraits on the sideboard is quite telling.” She inclined her head towards a row of charcoal drawings which depicted the entire House of Fëanáro, from Míriel's son to Tyelperinquar. They were simple, mere busts, sketches made to study their features. Any other visitor would have ignored them, but of course, not the woman sitting in front of her.

“Ah, so you have noticed them.”

“It is impossible not to. You have a wonderful hand, truly.”

“I suppose I do. Not as skilled in drawing as in embroidery, but your compliment pleases me, thank you.”

Nerdanel grinned, “Although Atarinke’s nose was smaller than that, and Ambarussa’s hair curlier. But nothing too noticeable,” she said, taking another sip of her tea.

“You noticed.”

Nerdanel shrugged, “I birthed them.”

“True. But now I will always see those imperfections.”

“You can correct them, or make the portraits anew.”

“I would need some better references other than what my sight has given me.”

“There are always my works.”

“I suppose there are. But I would need to come-" Míriel looked sharply at Nerdanel, "You did it on purpose, did you not?”

Nerdanel tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, “Did it work?”

“You know it did. Now I am compelled to visit you and see your statues for myself. And it seems that you know a great deal more about me than just what you said.”

“To be completely honest," she said, putting down on the saucer her empty cup, "lady Míriel, you are remarkably similar to Fëanáro. Yet, I would truly wish to get to know you, beyond the obvious similarities.”

Míriel nodded and promptly refilled Nerdanel’s cup with more tea. “Well, knowing me means knowing my art. Which I doubt you have seen, recently.”

Nerdanel bit her lips, thinking, “I saw some of your works in the palace, back when-” her voice wavered, “when I still visited. And Fëanáro had a quilt embroidered by you. A child’s quilt.”

Míriel was genuinely surprised, “A light grey quilt with dark red flowers?”

“That very one. He was very fond of it, and we used it for our sons.”

She felt strangely touched at that, and something in her throat closed, making her eyes water. She coughed, cursing inwardly the idea of pinning her hair up, leaving her whole face exposed to Nerdanel’s knowing gaze.

“Old works,” she brushed off the subject with a wave of her hand, “I have much improved. Come, look.”

She led Nerdanel near the loom, explaining to her the process, from the weaving to the embroidery, the intricacies of her stitches, the choice of material, the design she had in mind. Nerdanel seemed to soak in the information, asking questions that revealed her thorough knowledge of the art, and Míriel found himself incredibly pleased by her presence.

“So this is what you see when you look for my son?”

“Unfortunately, yes. As of late, at least.”

Nerdanel seemed confused, “Is he…shielding himself?”

Míriel shrugged, “I suppose. Thread and needle against voice and harp string. A battle of wills. I cannot reach him, although he is alive.” She kept silent for a moment. “He was aptly named.”

Nerdanel gave her a wistful smile, “Of course. You know, this is what I saw when I named him,” she chuckled, "Scholars insist that when mothers give prophetic names, they do so because of some grand vision of a possible future..."

Míriel snorted. Nerdanel rolled her eyes in agreement, "I sometimes saw colours. Marble-white for my Maitimo. Bright red for Carnistir. And this-"

A thunderclap startled them both, soon followed by the pattering of the rain on the windows. Míriel found Nerdanel’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Stay the night, Nerdanel. I have room upstairs, it should be comfortable enough. Stay the night, and tomorrow you will tell me about my son, and I about yours.”

Nerdanel gave her a soft smile, "I would like that very much."


	2. On Trial (Indis)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indis tells her side of the story, from Cuiviénen to her separation from Finwë.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Indis had felt constantly observed and almost on trial while the tensions among the Noldor grew - and Fëanor did not help. If given the chance to voice her feelings, what would she say? How would she tell her story?  
This is a very small attempt at giving her a voice, something that characterises her as more than the second wife of Finwë.  
Oh, and, unsurprisingly, the song Which Witch by Florence + The Manchine has been in the background while writing. 
> 
> Here I made Indis sister of Ingwë. Hope you enjoy!

I was the fastest runner in our settlement, when the stars were young and the world asleep. The dark hunter, the great monster that crept in when we were asleep and tried to steal our children had never been able to keep up with my swift feet and leaps. I was deadly with the spear, keeping away strange hungry creatures and hunting game for our village.

I kept them alive when my brother had gone West.

But I was not only that.

I loved to dance on the shore of the lake, the water splashing and tumbling around my feet, hair whipping and covering my naked body, sticking to the wet and painted skin. I loved to laugh and sing and coo at little children, hear them laugh and soothe them when they cried. I longed to have some of my own, but my heart was for one man already wedded, so I tucked that love away in my breast and helped my brother and parents. But one time, our father never returned from his hunt, and his warriors with him, and our mother faded away in grief, leaving me and Ingwë alone and scared.

He had been the only one who knew of my love for Finwë, had been the one to hold me when I cried myself to sleep, when Finwë and his beloved had become one. His absence during those endless cycles of the stars had hurt more than the loss of our parents.

Míriel was her name, and I would have been resentful if I had not needed desperately to learn how to weave and mend more complicated clothes than tunics and underwear, and I felt miserably alone. We became friends and confidantes, and if Míriel guessed at my hidden love, she never mentioned it. I supposed that she too felt lonely, newly wedded and already bereft of her husband.

Our lives were hard, death was a strange if familiar concept, a companion that stayed at the back of our minds when doing the most inane tasks, wondering if in that moment some creatures were circling our settlement and poisoning the waters and the food supplies, while dragging us in their dungeons. Broken families came to live under one roof to support each other, and my clan and Míriel’s intermingled.

When Finwë came back, and Ingwë and Elwë with him, and told of a blessed land where things grew without labour, where the Dark Hunter and his creatures could not thread, where – incredibly – there were two trees of incomparable beauty (one silver like Míriel’s hair, one as golden as mine, had said Finwë) that shone more brightly than any star and blossomed in two alternating cycles, where the air was warm and sweetly-scented, where there were no storms, no blizzards, no rotting decay, we could not believe it.

“Would it not be a wonderful place to raise a child?” had asked Finwë, looking at Míriel with such a fiery light in his eyes, I had to bite the inside of my cheek and look away, swallowing my longing.

It would be a wonderful place, I had thought. And the children would grow up strong and healthy, free to laugh and play as they should, without the need to learn how to wield a spear or draw a bow at a young age. A place where parents would not have to mourn a missing child, and children would not grow up orphaned.

A place where I could dance and shed my old skin, bury my spear and my unrequited love with it. Yes, I wanted to go. I would have followed my brother anywhere, and Míriel. (And Finwë.)

Their love supported me through the long journey and gave me hope.

__

My spear was forgotten, my love not. But I lived long years in the bliss of this land they called Valinor, and helped my brother and Finwë, who now were Kings, in building Tírion the white. I loved the city, its towers and roads, and admired the skill and eagerness of the Noldor in crafting things of wonder, so I stayed long there, even when some of my people began to move west to live closer to the Trees. But when Finwë and Míriel at last began to think of children, I felt time was come to leave and bring with me the remaining of our people.

Soon after, Fëanáro was born. And after that, Míriel passed in Mandos.

How can I relay what happened after? I could scarcely believe my eyes that day, when Finwë came in Valmar and looked at me dancing as he had looked at Míriel on the shores of Cuiviénen. My heart had leaped with joy in time with my feet, even if I knew that a shadow lay on our young love. He would always love Míriel first, and I never begrudged him that. I loved him perhaps too much for my own good, and I had come to love Míriel as a close sister, so I grieved her death too.

I also grieved for his child, so young and yet – it seemed we had not left all the death in the Hither Lands. I wanted to love that child with all my heart, and never once in my life I had tried to replace my friend. She and I were polar opposites in personality, and it would not settle well with me to lie to Fëanáro. He did not deserve it.

But the matter of remarriage took longer to be discussed than what Finwë and I anticipated, and in the meantime Fëanáro grew and began to resent me.

My brother did not take sides, publicly, if his deferring to Manwë in this matter could be regarded as such.

At that time, I had felt betrayed by his lack of support, though I had still a terrible fascination and awed devotion to the Valar that I thought it just. The Valar themselves have recognised the wrong in their judgement, if ages later.

For one of the main arguments had revolved around Fëanáro’s very existence, and I had always suspected that he had taken those words too close to heart, and grew bitter.

He saw me as the very reason why his mother had to remain dead. He was stubborn in his belief, and if he had been less like his mother, he would have seen that it had been _her_ stubbornness that had made her refuse again and again to come back to life.

I do not want my words to be misunderstood. I do not blame Míriel. In the Hither Lands such things had happened. I remember well how much the birth of my Arakáno had taken from me, and if the birth of Fëanáro had taken even just the double amount from her than what I had experienced, I am sure I too would have balked at the prospect of begetting more children. Moreover, nothing in the world could now persuade me to return to live in Tírion, resume my marriage with Finwë, no matter how many times it has been asked, and by whom.

Finwë knows this. He is a difficult man to love. Restless, at times whimsical when it comes to matters of the heart, despite his wisdom and ability as a leader. My brother had known this. I never knew what happened between them, why Ingwë finally decided to leave Tírion, but I am sure it had been for a difference of character. Nothing of importance, in the long run, just one of those tensions and unconfessed truth between friends, as there have been between Míriel and I. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, as someone had once said.

But I was telling of Míriel. I am aware that my examples are a pale thing when compared to her reasons, but until she decides to disclose them, all we are left with are mere speculations and attempts at understanding. I wish I could talk to her again.

So, Fëanáro blamed me and took it out on my children. My sons, in particular. No, on Nolofinwë. They were so similar, and neither of them could see it at first. When they did, they refused to admit it. He attacked my being Vanyarin, forgetting who had helped build the palace he had been born in. He attacked my attempts at adapting to the ever-changing Noldorin culture, at the same time bemoaning my Vanyarin attitudes. He forgot that I had been the first – and only woman in Aman – to willingly take for husband an already married man, with child nonetheless, despite what the customs of the Valar and of my people dictated.

Yet, I had tried to forgive him. For love of Finwë, for love of Míriel, for his youth. Until he pointed a sword at my son’s throat and I could not take it anymore.

I remember that night. I had never had such an argument with anyone, least of all Finwë. I was so enraged I could barely contain myself, and I suppose that the whole palace’s staff had heard our shouts. But Fëanáro had crossed a line I had placed a long time ago, before we even knew what the Valar were, when there was either death or survival, and a pointed weapon meant one thing and one only. And the worst thing was, Melkor was again among us, walking freely in his fair form, but his corruption had never ceased.

Finwë understood, for he had been there, had seen how mothers reacted when their children were involved, but – He was the father of the attacker too, and I was not the mother, no matter how much I had tried to love him.

For him, there was no choice. Nolofinwë was safe, while Fëanáro risked exile, permanent shame and estrangement. He simply could never believe that his children would be capable of such deeds.

I am sure he had reprimanded Fëanáro, for he could be inflexible and stern when he wanted. But never so in public, especially regarding his sons.

Some blame everything on Melkor and the marring of Arda, some other maintain that it is a seed already present in each individual’s nature that matures and grows, which determines one’s penchant for wicked deeds. I agree at the same time with both and neither. We know not all, we make mistakes, we sometimes act in incomprehensible ways. Even the most mediocre man can be wicked in the most hurtful of ways.

If Fëanáro were ever to walk again in Valinor, I would hope for him to learn, this time, to heed his wife’s old counsel and to seek for understanding of other people’s mind. Perhaps, he would be more at peace.

__

I returned to my brother’s court during Finwë’s exile, staying with him and my daughter’s family in the city, but if I had escaped Tirion to avoid the Noldor’s squabbles, I soon found myself ensnared in a web of suspicion and fear. My people, for all their far-sightedness and contemplative mind, could not look at me and see simply a tired and hurt woman, seeking respite from the tensions that had wrecked her family. They saw what they wanted and feared to see, someone that carried with her the Noldor’s taint, their hunger, their disquiet.

I was the woman who married a widower.

I was the wife who left her husband. The mother who left her children.

I was the woman who left. Left Valmar, left Tirion.

In their eyes, I was a Noldo in all but looks, never satisfied with what I already had.

It became unbearable, feeling a hundredth times worse than Fëanáro’s bitterness, because his, I had expected. And he was but a one man, young and, in a way, inexperienced. But the court of Valmar made me feel as if I were constantly on trial, ready to be sentenced for something – for a careless word, pronounced in the Noldorin way; for daring to show my face in public, when, as a member of the royal family, I should have had more decorum, and show myself contrite and sorrowful (as if I was not sorrowful enough), instead of keeping my pride and head high.

My daughter, my dear Findis, offered me to move into her country house when one snide comment made behind our backs had reached our ears – but not those of my brother, who seemed convinced that if he kept me by his side for long enough, people would stop to direct their prejudices at me.

My sister-in-law the Queen, and my nephews, however, knew well what was said, and I had to beg them not to make a scene by addressing the matter publicly.

The times were not right, and I was tired of being at the centre of people’s attention. I would remove myself from the court, from the city, I had said.

It was not right, they had answered back, with Ingwion the most vehement. But he had always had a special bond with my sons, and Finwë’s impartiality in his love for his children had always been a matter most dear to him. I had been Queen, and was mother and sister of Kings – my place should have been the highest at court.

(I may have been mother of Kings, but had I not left them both, retiring to my brother’s side, when, perhaps, my children had needed my support? If there is one thing I regret, is this. It is leaving my Arakáno to struggle alone against the rising tide, and my Ingoldo to try and pick up the broken pieces left behind by the storm. Back then, I had felt unwanted and cumbersome.)

But, as I said, I was tired, exhausted and stretched thin by the constant bickering and scrutiny. If they wanted to remain attached to their old ideas of pride and propriety, I would let them. I did not want to be held responsible for things outside my hands. Not anymore.

__

Pengolodh’s pen hovered above the paper, unsure how to interpret the silence that followed her last words. He looked up at the lady in front of him with his quizzical eyes, and saw her fiddle with her necklace, the intricate design marking it as a work of some of the best jewel smiths of the Noldor.

_Was that Fëanáro’s work?_ he asked himself.

She was looking out of the great windows of the library that opened above the central square of Valmar, and her stern face softened when the sound of children’s laughter reached them.

“Well, that is all I can tell you for today. But do not ask me to relay what happened after. The stories we have already are sufficient, I think. I hope this answers your questions, Master Pengolodh.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, even if she could not see him. “It does, Your Grace. You have been most exhaustive.”

She nodded and turned to him, her ancient gaze seizing him up, as if measuring his worth. “Your aim is commendable, and I am looking forward to read your work. But answer me this, master scholar. Why you? Why not let a woman write a Women’s History?”

Ah. Well, how would he explain that, without damaging his pride as a scholar?

“My previous accounts – they have not been received particularly well by some of the people involved. I have to amend that.”

“Meaning that someone complained to you for you inaccuracies.”

Pengolodh blushed to the roots of his hair, “Indeed.”

“Yet, you must value this person’s opinion very much, if you are willing to put your entire work into question in such a way. Who is your patron? Somehow, I doubt it is my grandson Turukáno, this time, despite what his recommendation says,” she pointed at Turukáno’s letter spread on the table in the middle of the study.

“You are right, Your Grace, it is not him. Lady Aredhel it was who voiced the strongest complaints. And Lady Irimë suggested the idea of such a work. I admit, I wish to correct the wrong I did to them, and I am beyond grateful that they had indeed given me the opportunity, instead of assigning the work to someone else.”

The former Queen of the Noldor, with all her grace and manners, could not fight the hearty laugh that broke her entire composure, and Pengolodh wondered at how similar she looked to her grandson, who had always been said to resemble Finwë the most instead. Yet, here was proof that said otherwise, with the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, her lips forming a sweet curve that transformed her whole face, and Pengolodh thought – yes, he thought he had never seen someone as beautiful and bright as this lady in this moment, in the lingering light of the late afternoon in this strange city of the Vanyar. Was this what the old king had seen, that fateful day he decided he would marry her?

He felt his face aflame once more and tried to forcefully chase away that thought.

It would be absolutely unprofessional, he told himself. Never mind the potential catastrophe that would follow if…

He would need to be content to simply admire from afar.


	3. Soft-hearted (Findis)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The awareness crept up on her slowly, and she did not start at the realisation, did not gasp at the novelty of it. She was not like her brothers and sister. It was a truth that had always been in her heart." - Some scenes in the life of Findis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Findis's story, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing and exploring her character!
> 
> Some notes on the characters:  
\- Aldamir (Vanya): Findis's husband.  
\- Ingalaurë/Inglor: this is Gildor's father and I decided to make him Findis's son. I have invented some sort of backstory for them, which is hinted at in this chapter, so that I could make sense of/explain why Gildor introduces himself as "of the House of Finrod", of all people, and to merge the different possibilities regarding his connection to the House of Finarfin. 
> 
> The last scene is the same as the last scene in Celebrían's chapter in my other collection of stories for Arafinwëan Week 2019.

[1210 Y.T.]

It was a stupid thing, Findis knew it. She should have not let the matter upset her so much, but no matter how much she tried, she could not stop the tears from spilling.

It had started like this. Fëanáro had arrived at their father’s request the other day. Mother Indis had just given birth to a gurgling healthy little girl, and no matter how much he had griped and groaned about visiting, he would not disappoint his father so. Findis hazy memory of the first time she had become _aware_ of her eldest brother coincided with the day of Arakáno’s birth, so she suspected that he had been present for her birth too – a fact, which she did not know how to interpret. It was not that she disliked him, though she could not say that she loved him as she loved Arakáno.

He looked already grown, tall – not as tall as father, however, considering that he was still a mere forty years old youth – with his expression sharp and keen, which made him look unapproachable, unreachable. To say that she was intimidated would have been an understatement. But she had seen him greet father Finwë with a tender smile and a heartfelt hug, and she had decided to give him a chance.

So it was, that she had gathered her courage and asked Fëanáro for help with her studies, as her father had suggested her, while mother Indis napped with little Lalwendë. He had seemed actually surprised at her request, but soon they had found themselves sitting in one of the reading rooms of the Palace’s library, going over her notes together, and everything would have been fine, had she not gotten careless with her speech, and mispronounced a word. It was such a stupid thing, because Fëanáro had not even thought about it, before correcting her pronunciation. She had looked at him, confused, and he had to repeat his correction, this time explaining to her that she had slipped into the Vanyarin pronunciation, which was not proper for a Noldorin princess.

“But mother says it like that,” she had objected.

“Well, she’s wrong, then,” he had snapped.

It must have been the way his mouth had turned down in disdain, or the sudden vehemence of his tone that had shocked her. She gripped her pencil, and looked down at her notes, resuming her writing with an unsteady hand. He noticed, of course, and she heard him click his tongue in disapproval at her calligraphy.

“Try to write that better, it’s almost illegible. No, don’t erase it, just draw a line on it and do it again.”

It was the same thing her teachers would have said to her, yet coming from him the words mortified her. She had needed his help, but she would have wanted also to impress him, not annoy him!

The tears came unbidden, as she felt his stern eyes on her, and she fought to keep her head down, hiding her flushed face, blinking rapidly to disperse them and to avoid sniffling.

There was only so much she could do, before a large drop wetted the page, smudging her writing. She stared at it horrified, and felt a white-hot shock spread down to her spine. He would see it, and he would scold her for it. He would be annoyed, and upset, and he would never want to help her again! It would make her father so disappointed that –

“Are you – _crying_?” he sounded disbelieving and it was all it took for her resolve to crumble as she started sniffling and hiccupping, large wet tears trailing down her cheeks and soaking into the fabric of her dress, a nice light blue thing on which the wet spots of her tears bloomed larger and larger.

“Oh Eru, help me,” muttered Fëanáro beside her. She did not turn her head, but followed his movements from the corner of her eyes as he pushed the notes away from her and took the pencil from her hands.

“Why are you crying, little one? What is it?”

She sniffled and shook her head, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands.

“Look, I didn’t-” he tried to reach out to her, perhaps to take her hands or brush her hair back from her face, but she flinched away from him involuntarily.

Fortune was not on his side, because it was in that moment that Arakáno chose to barge into the room with all the urgency of a young excited boy.

“Sister, are you finished yet? Lalwendë has woken up! Oh.” He halted as soon as he stepped in. She saw his eyes dart from her tear-stricken face and Fëanáro, who shifted in his seat and let out a groan. Arakáno frowned.

“Why is she crying?”

When no one answered him, he stepped closer to Findis, and took her hand, helping her to get down from the stool. Her hiccups had calmed, and she was in the process of drying her face with the hem of her dress, but she did not dare look up at Fëanáro’s face – or her little brother’s. She was terribly ashamed of herself for crying like a little girl. She was twenty-four! What to do? She could slip away from Arakáno’s grip and dart for her rooms, but how would that make her look? It would be even more childish.

“Well, what did you do?”

Arakáno was trying to pitch his voice like that of father – and he had a frown to match it, that was sure – but the effect was thwarted by the unimpressed look Fëanáro gave him.

“Nothing, brat. I did nothing to her.”

“Then why is she sad? And I’m not a brat!”

“You’re making a fuss out of nothing. I don’t know why your sister here decided it was a good idea to cry, you barged in when I was trying to ask her that. So yes, you are an annoying brat.”

“Is it true?”

Findis took a deep breath and nodded. Arakáno thought about it for a moment, unconvinced, and she squeezed his hand in reassurance, giving him a little smile. Understanding her message, her brother’s entire face was transformed by an excited grin in an instant.

“Good. Then we can go see Lalwendë! She just woke up,” he began to drag Findis by the hand. She did not resist, but turned to look at her notes lying on the table, and was about to tell him to stop for a second so that she could bring them with, when she saw Fëanáro stand up and collect them for her. She looked up at his face, serious and almost bored, as Arakáno chatted about the virtues of their new little sister, oblivious to everything else already.

“She is so tiny! But her grip is so strong already. You should come to see her too, Fëanáro, father would be happy.”

“I saw her yesterday.”

“Yes, but she has grown up already! And you know what? She smiled! At me! You have to see her, maybe she will smile again for you. You are her brother, after all, like me!”

Findis giggled as Fëanáro rolled his eyes, “Very well, lead the way, little brat.” He reached out a hand and ruffled Arakáno’s hair.

“Hey!”

*

[1266 Y.T.]

“I am truly happy for you, dear sister,” said Arakáno, kissing Findis on her brow, “He seems like a good man. And he loves you very much, of that there’s no doubt.”

“And since when have you become an expert at that, oh wise bachelor?”

Findis snorted at Lalwen’s words, but she soon stopped listening to the usual banter between her siblings, content to let her head fall on Arakáno’s shoulder and have him support her weight. Valar, she was tired!

Her betrothal feast had been a success, and she had danced the whole night with her betrothed Aldamir, her father, her brothers and cousins, even Fëanáro – though she suspected he had asked more out of duty and needled by his wife – and his firstborn, Maitimo.

Happy was not a word sufficient to describe her feelings. She was satisfied, because all her effort in organising and overseeing the feast had paid off, because her family had been together, without a single squabble ruining the evening. The presence of her cousins from Valmar had been a pleasant surprise, something she had not counted on, considering the hesitant answers they had given to her invitations. But if she knew her brother, and had read well his smug smile when their cousins had appeared, she could imagine his machinations in organizing the whole thing, finding a willing accomplice in Ingwion. The two, apparently, were a terror in Valmar, especially when horses and races were involved.

_If I marry soon, Arakáno would still be in Valmar for his studies. Maybe my move to the Vanyarin city will not be such a shock if I have a familiar face around. _

Yet, the thought of leaving Tírion permanently did not sit well with her. For all her looks and education, she felt she belonged to the Noldor, and that her heart would remain with her people. She did love poetry, though, and their schools and libraries were some of the best on the subject. And a secret part of her was terribly curious about those golden spears they wielded with such a fatal grace during the parades. She would have liked to try that.

The clicking of boot heels and female shoes approaching had the siblings turn in the direction of the newcomers. Findis felt Arakáno’s stiffen, and she disentangled herself from his half embrace as Fëanáro and his wife approached, with Maitimo trailing behind them.

Nerdanel smiled, “I wish to congratulate, Findis. I am truly happy for you.”

“Thank you, Nerdanel, and also thank you for coming. I hope you enjoyed the feast.”

“Very much so, yes,” she kept silent for a moment too long, betraying with her hesitation how she was, in fact, unaccustomed to the inane small talks filled with pleasantries that princesses and princes had to learn since early youth. Deciding to spare her any embarrassment, Findis took it upon herself to continue. “And you, Maitimo? How did you find the feast?”

The young man – how strange to think that he was but two years older than Ingoldo! – cleared his voice and inclined his head, regaling his small audience with a dazzling smile. “I found it most enjoyable, aunt Findis, thank you. And let me extend our congratulations for your betrothal once more.”

_And where did he learn to talk like that at his age? _Our_ congratulations? So that Fëanáro is spared from repeating the phrase again. And he sounded sincere too._

Mentally shaking her head, she thanked him again, suddenly weary and eager to finally retire.

When the young family left, between another round of empty well wishes, Findis took a deep breath and rubbed her lower back.

“What an arse,” was Lalwen’s serene comment.

“What can you do? At least he stayed silent,” said Ingoldo.

“He could have showed more enthusiasm,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter,” cut in Findis, “Nerdanel is a kind woman and I won’t talk about her husband behind her back. Now, I’m tired and wish to sleep as soon as I can.”

Ingoldo flushed, and muttered an apology. Lalwen did not look remorseful, but apologised too. Deciding that she could not stay upset at them, Findis groped for a change of topic, something to lighten the mood. It was her day, and she did not want to go to bed with her last words of the day being a reprimand to her siblings.

“You did not need to chaperone me to my rooms, you know,” she said, “Aldamir has retired already.”

“And can you solemnly swear that you wouldn’t have tried to sneak into his room for a goodnight kiss?” asked Arakáno.

“Or more that a kiss,” muttered Lalwen, much to Ingoldo’s embarrassment.

Findis only laughed and considered her mission complete, “Who knows?” she winked at them, “Good night, brothers, sister. See you tomorrow.”

She opened the door to her chambers as Ingoldo spluttered and Lalwen’s laugh echoed in the hall. The last thing she saw, before closing the door, was Arakáno’s fond smile.

*

[1303 Y.T.]

She was exhausted, and in pain, so much pain, but she could not stop herself from smiling. She would have laughed, and singed, and danced around the room if her body had allowed it, but lying like this was not so bad. Not when the warm and squirming bundle of her son was in her arms, and her husband sleeping beside her. Poor Aldamir, he had been beside himself with worry, and then with joy, crying even more than her, if that was possible.

The birth had been terrifying and difficult yesterday (or better yet, that night), but they were both well, now, rested and clean. She could not wait to finally walk to the breakfast table and present her son to her father and mother. If only the hours would pass more swiftly!

The baby, her little Ingalaurë, squirmed again and began to wail. She cooed at him, rocking him a little bit, checking his diaper, and then slipped her nightgown down, exposing her breast, onto which he latched instinctively as soon as he realised what it was.

“Are you alright?” came Aldamir’s drowsy voice. She smiled at him, “We are fine. He was a little hungry.”

He hummed as he sat up, stretching his back and neck, and then settled beside her, watching them with unabashed adoration plain on his fair face. She was so lucky!

“Did you sleep at all, dearest?”

“I slept enough. And I’m hungry too. Breakfast should be soon.”

She felt his hands caress her shoulders, moving her hair aside so that he could place a kiss on the curve of her neck. “Where do you find all this energy?”

She laughed, “But look at him!” she exclaimed softly, “How can I sleep?”

He chuckled, “But truly, how do you feel? Are you still in pain?”

“A little bit, but don’t worry, love. The midwife has assured me that it’s normal in the first days. Mother said that too.”

“Mh, in that case…”

The baby gurgled happily once he was finished, and Aldamir took him so that she could go wash and dress for the day.

*

[1490 Y.T.]

The city was eerily silent when Findis entered its gates. It was still early in the day, but never had the streets of Tírion been so quiet. She could feel eyes on her back, as if every stone in the city was a sentient being following her every step, and she straightened her back on her horse, trying not to shiver.

_My son was right in insisting to bring a weapon with me, apparently. _

It was a depressing thought. What had happened to the Noldor, she could not fathom. What had happened inside her own family, her _brothers_…

As if perceiving her mood – or, more probably, feeling as unsettled as her – her small escort, which comprised of five guards, and her personal maid, closed ranks around her.

She traversed the central square, where the great market was held in the days of feast, and the statue of her father loomed east over the white pavement. It was one of Nerdanel’s later works, when her art had become more abstract in design, and her faces uncannily lifelike. Now, in the waning light of Teleperion, the silvery-blue hues mingled with the still pale golden rays of Laurelin at an angle that illuminated only the back of the statue. The front was still in the shadow cast by the encircling mountains, and the face remained indefinite. But Findis knew well those features, and any other day she would not have paid much mind to the statue. Yet, right now, it looked as if Finwë’s features were gaunter, his eyes two mere gaping cavities, and his mouth curled down in a snarl.

Findis startled and averted her gaze, focussing on the road ahead. _It was just a trick of the light. Nothing more._

But she did not look back at the statue, and soon the road became steeper as it climbed over the hill of Túna.

_

Her son Ingalaurë welcomed her at the gates of the Palace, out of breath and in a hurry to get her inside as soon as possible. Without exchanging pleasantries, he led her soon to a private room deep in the Palace. She remembered running around these same corridors with Arakáno when they were still too young to participate in any political activity taking place in those rooms. Back then, the presence of children playing just outside council rooms was still tolerated.

“We knew you were coming, but not this early. You travelled by night? Did everything go well?”

His strides were long, and despite her height, she struggled to keep up with him. He was shaken to the core, and he looked tired. Reaching out for his arm, she pulled at his elbow until he slowed down.

“I did. We encountered no trouble.”

In another time, another lifetime, she would have asked how he was doing, how things were going, but what use was there for such senseless questions? She had seen the city, she could see his nervousness, and she knew what had happened.

“Father stayed in Valmar?”

She sighed, remembering their argument. Aldamir had wanted to accompany her, despite his duties, but she had insisted to go alone. He would have needed all the time he had – which was scarce – to prepare for what was to come. As King Ingwe’s advisor in matters of Law, he could not leave, not now.

“He needs to prepare the case for the hearing.”

Ingalaurë nodded, “I understand. It will not be easy.”

Findis felt hollow as she said “No, I suppose not.”

_

The room turned out to be one of those spacious rooms with a hearth and a few couches that were used to welcome respected guests for more informal occasions. Ingalaurë opened the door for her, but made no other move. “I’ll go now, mother. I’ll see you later.” She nodded, confused, and watched him go for a moment, before entering. Her eyes found Nolofinwë, sitting on one of the chairs, hunched over and head bowed, a cup in his hand. Lalwen and Arafinwë were present too, and Findis noticed immediately how drawn and grim their faces were. The King himself was absent too, and so was the Queen. Stepping in, she noticed Anairë perched on another chair, on the other side of the room. She looked like she had not slept in days, and angry. Findis closed the door and leaned on it, accepting their nods of greeting. Her brother raised his head, his expression blank.

“Findis. You came.”

“Of course I did!”

The two stared at each other for a moment, before both their composures broke. She ran to him and clung to his neck, as he rocked her a little.

“Dear Manwë, Káno, I-”

“Shh, I’m alright.”

“Alright!” she protested, though her voice was muffled on his shoulder, “It should never have happened.”

Nolofinwë did not answer, but loosened their embrace, keeping his hands on Findis’s shoulders and taking her in, as if he were checking for injuries. Him checking on her! _He has no regard for himself, as usual._

“What, in Manwë’s name, possessed you, sister. To travel alone, by night, in this troubled time!” he scolded her, but his voice was gentle and his gaze fond. Findis huffed, “What do you think? And I am no child that you can boss around, brother. I can well take care of my safety.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he sighed, and in that moment she saw him clearly. He was exhausted, stressed and infinitely sad, as if he were grieving.

He probably was, she reasoned. He had never lost his stubborn faith that he would, one day, walk side by side with Fëanáro, his equal and supporter, and he would be called brother in return.

But this – this _thing_ that had happened, this wretched rivalry between them had gone too far for that dream to ever take a consistent form. Grief indeed was in Findis’s heart too, for what had never been and now could not be anymore.

“I want you to tell me everything. How it happened, what he said, and most importantly, what father said.”

She heard Lalwen snort, “Father-”

“Lalwen, please, silence,” Nolofinwë interrupted her, resuming once again his mask of prince, “We are not here to argue. Come, Findis, sit and I will tell you what you wish to know.”

She did, and her heart broke.

_

“What are you going to do? At the hearing, I mean.”

Nolofinwë pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a moment for himself. Findis saw the muscles of his jaw flex and relax repeatedly, before he said, “I will plead for his forgiveness.”

She stared at him, unable to comprehend his words. “Why?” she asked at length.

“Why, I’ll tell you why, sister, because he surely won’t,” spoke Lalwen. Findis looked at her and felt the urge to get up and embrace her, though she would not have appreciated the gesture. Her little sister was almost hysterical, a sign that gave away how much the whole event had shaken and frightened her. For all her confidence and fierceness, she looked up at Nolofinwë almost as if he were her personal hero, infallible, invincible, steadfast. To see him a breath away from... Findis had not the heart to finish the thought.

She would have reached out to her – to them, for Arafinwë was awfully quiet this morning, keeping his thoughts for himself – but she knew she would find only an impenetrable wall to keep her out. Such were the times in which they lived, apparently.

“He thinks that by doing so, father would not be grieved. And the Noldor would not take sides, and keep united. As if! Instead of thinking of his own well-being and self-worth, he places someone else’s peace of mind above his own! Even above our own, though we are his family – his _true_ family, not a sorry excuse of a relative like that deranged paranoid of a _half-brother_ he insist to include in the term! Do you think the Valar will pardon him? That he could walk freely in Tírion, as if he did not _threaten to kill you_? The Noldor will take sides regardless.”

“I am trying to be _reasonable_, Lalwendë, which you clearly are not. But see, this is the difference between a leader and a normal person. I _need_ to pardon him, make a show of it, appear as if I am beyond these petty squabbles of jealousy! I will not, for the life of me, play into their hands,” he stood up, paced the room and stopped at every door, as if listening for eavesdroppers.

Satisfied, he stood again in the middle of the room, looking each of them in the eyes. He seemed almost wild, yet collected and driven, his gaze weighing them and at the same time looking through them, as if he were seeing something far ahead, in a possible future. Findis had never seen that look on him before, though she realised with a start that the light that now danced white and cold in his eyes was terrifyingly similar to that of Fëanáro. Despite herself, she shivered.

“We have all been deceived,” he said in a low voice, “I have had my suspicions, but this episode confirmed it. Some of the words Fëanáro said I have heard already, whispered here and there well before he confronted me. And not only by his followers, but by mine too. Voices that wanted me ready to usurp his place and rob him of his jewels. Voices that wanted him ready to have me excluded by the political life of the city.”

He shook his head vehemently, “A work that has lasted for years, one little whisper at a time, until they grew into something impossible to ignore, so deeply ingrained in everyone’s mentality, that no one could pinpoint exactly _when_ all of this started. Yet, there are to many coincidences, by now. At the hearing I am sure they will all come to light. And when I – we – will have the full picture, we will all see how far we have been manipulated.”

Arafinwë stood up abruptly, white in the face and out of breath, “What are you talking about? _Who_ has manipulated us?”

“I have no proof, as of now, but I believe that _the Enemy_ is behind it.”

There was only one Enemy in their tales. And he walked again among the Noldor in particular – he had never ventured as far as Valmar.

Findis felt a cold sweat trickle down her back and dampening her palms. An irrational fear gripped her stomach, and she felt dizzy for a moment as Nolofinwë’s words sunk in, breaking a strange spell that had fogged her mind before. That is what she had felt walking through the empty city an hour ago. Spying eyes and shadows that distorted every surface. She recalled how Finwë’s statue had looked, the grotesque mask that should have been the beloved face of her father snarling down at her. Had that been just a trick of the lights, or had someone who _had _been following her after all, done that on purpose?

Arafinwë’s violent swearing distracted her from the dreadful memory. “He has tried to talk with Findaráto, not long ago. I don’t know the details, but my son only told me that he had had a feeling of wrongness and deceit, and walked away,” in a couple of steps he stood in front of Nolofinwë, “Brother, if what you say is true…”

Nolofinwë gripped his brother’s shoulder, “Then we are facing something bigger than a simple matter of jealousy.”

Findis closed her eyes and sent a prayer to Varda and Manwë.

*

[Y.T. 1495]

The awareness crept up on her slowly, and she did not start at the realisation, did not gasp at the novelty of it. She was not like her brothers and sister. It was a truth that had always been in her heart. No matter how much she grieved for father, for – everything that had happened, a catastrophe so great she could not yet grasp it, she did not seek revenge, and her rabbit heart lurched at the mere idea of stepping outside Valinor, outside the protection of the Valar. How would the East be? The Sleep of Yavanna still held those lands, and Melkor’s taint would be stronger. How could she even think of going? (How could she bear to leave her mother alone, when no one else would stay behind for her?)

Level-headed, soft-hearted Findis, had called her Lalwendë upon departure. And Findis pictured in her mind Fëanáro’s words, calling them craven and pious and _cowards_. Perhaps she was a coward. Perhaps Lalwendë had meant that. But Nolofinwë had assured her, kissing her brow and then each of her cheeks, as he was so fond of doing. _My heart would be gladder to know that you are safe here, and that my people who chose to stay behind are well looked after, and mother too._ That was what he had said. And despite the doubts she had seen swirling in his eyes, her had turned his back on her, leaving her behind, like he had never done.

Arafinwë had lingered the longest, pensive and pale, and in the end he had simply said _Await us here, sister, and look east for our return_.

She willed herself to show a brave face, not to cry again, but what was the point?

They would all depart, her siblings, _her son_. (For him she had no words, except begging him to stay, to not endanger himself needlessly, to not let vengeance and rage poison his heart against compassion. He was determined to leave, and she was too weak to order him to stay.)

They would all go, and leave her behind, and be nothing more than memories for her. Like her father.

Would she ever see them again?

She held on to Aldamir’s hand, feeling his grief and despair as strong as her own.

Her eyes filled with tears, and soon the host of the Noldor was nothing more than a glowing blur, moving like a heavy serpent along the valley, directed east, to Alqualondë.

*

[Y.T. 1496]

She saw Arafinwë again, returning from the east as he had foretold. A part of her wished that he had not, wished that his words upon his return were but a strange nightmare. But they were not.

She fled to Valmar, to her home there. Her mother came with her.

*

[Years 456, 465, First Age]

She felt her brother’s _fëa_ slip away, their frayed bond snapping completely. It was a quiet night, if cold. No sound could be heard, as if the very air had stilled. No moon was to be seen, only Varda’s stars, white and distant in the dark sky, the Menelmakar constellation blazing brighter and filling her with a sense of impending doom. She did not cry that night.

_

But when she felt her son’s _fëa_ flee to Mandos in anguish, shattered and twisted almost beyond recognition, she screamed until her voice gave out.

Later, when the world shifted and the Doom was lifted, she would hear people sing of her son’s bravery and loyalty to his king, Finrod Felagund, who gave his life for the love of Men and Eldar.

Finrod Felagund and his faithful companions, who died torn apart by wolves in Sauron’s dungeons.

She hated those songs.

There were no songs for her brother.

*

[Year 3022, Third Age]

Ingalaurë, or Inglor, as he now preferred to be called, was restless, shifting his weight from foot to foot and craning his neck to see above the heads of the people assembled on the docks. He looked happier and healthier than she had seen him in years, bouncing on his feet as if he were still an excitable youth, when he could not keep still even while he ate, and was soon off to run through Tírion’s streets with his cousins.

Now, he was a grown man welcoming his wife and son back after ages apart.

With a fond smile, she looked around at the other people assembled there, at Findaráto and Angaráto flanking Celebrían like two golden pillars guarding a silver flower, at Arafinwë and Eärwen composed forms, hands clasped too tightly, a small hint at their nervousness and excitement.

Sensing her gaze, Arafinwë turned to her, and a sparkle of delight lit his face, making him look younger and more careless than he had become under the weight of his crown. They grinned at each other, and Findis felt her eyes sting with the hint of tears.

But for once in her life, she welcomed them. And when her son jumped and waved his arms, calling the names of his wife and son, and when Findis first saw the noble and wise face of Gildor, her grandson, she let the tears run freely and a laugh escaped her throat.

No more grief. She would cry only for joy.


	4. Dark Was the Hour, But Day Shall Come Again (Lalwen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of the First Age, from Lalwen's point of view. How she became Queen, and lost her kingdom. How she endured to see a new day rise, at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, first of all, apologies for the delay! This story has been more difficult to write than I expected.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> The chapter's title comes from Blind Guardian's "A Dark Passage".

[F.A. 20]

Lalwendë surveyed the organised chaos that was transforming the green meadow into a place fit for hosting their numerous guests. She noted with no small amount of pride how her people had grown in numbers and become stronger again after the hardships they had suffered on the Ice.

_Hopefully, this feast will also bring us the peace we crave and the unity we need. _

A shiver went down her spine when a passing cloud obscured the Sun, depriving her for a moment of her warmth. The cold winds blowing from the north never lost their bite, even this deep into the close encircle of the mountains. For once, however, they did not bring with them the acrid smell of the smokes vomited by the peaks of Thangorodrim, but the earthy smell of humid soil and sun-burnt stone. She inhaled deeply, letting her lungs expand until the muscles between her ribs stretched. Yes, she could suffer this cold, for today.

Later in the night, they would light a fire, and dance around it, and would be merry like children of old, in another world.

*

She recognised his strides as he approached her, confident and proud in his mantle of King and host, even if he now wore only an embroidered tunic over his riding breeches, and a fur-lined cloak that had seen better days.

“We are almost ready,” she said as a welcome. He nodded and took in the rows of tables and tents, the numerous stacks of firewood ready to be lit as soon as the night descended, smell of food and wine wafting here and there at the wind’s whim.

“The host from Doriath is almost here. Half an hour, I think. The ambassadors from Ossiriand are right behind them.”

“That is good,” she eyed critically his clothes, “I hope you will change into something more suitable.”

He laughed, but there was a deprecating note in his voice when he said, “I ought to welcome our guests with only bear and seal skin covering my modesty. Have them see the scars left by the Ice and Moringotto’s arrows.”

Lalwendë bit her lips and scowled, “I doubt they would appreciate it.”

He shrugged, “Precisely.”

“It would be a terrible sight, for sure, but it would send the wrong message. We need them as allies.”

“That we do. And yet, perhaps it would send the message across far better than an embellished speech could ever do.”

“It would also tell everyone that you have not truly forgiven our…_nephews_ for their betrayal.”

“Who said I have? I am willing to put that matter aside as long as Moringotto stands and poisons the land, as long as my father needs to be avenged.”

“And when that happens? What then? Will you…wage war on them?”

“Perhaps I should.”

“Nolofinwë!”

He laughed again, and this time Lalwendë with him, for the sheer absurdity of their situation. Here they were, leaders of a divided people, forced to make merry and smile with their treacherous kin, when they both could not (could never) forgive them in truth, and with the Moriquendi who seemed too ambivalent at the prospect of waging war against the Enemy for being trusted as close allies. Only the Mithrim Sindar had expressed their vague support, though their actual commitment was yet to be tested.

“I wanted to ask you something, before our guests arrive,” Nolofinwë’s voice turned serious again, “I wanted to finalise your position in my court. You already are in charge of my household, and… Well, I would name you Queen, legally. Or, something like that. I cannot use that term, after all.”

Lalwendë blinked as her heart leaped in her throat.

“What do you mean by ‘legally’?”

“By decree. Aside from what you already do, you would attend the council, hold court of law and hearings, pass judgement and accept oaths. And formally command my forces in my absence.”

“That is…more than a Queen _consort_ does.”

“In Tírion, perhaps. But we are not there anymore, are we not? And I did not say ‘consort’.”

“And what prevents me from doing all of that, but in lands of my own?”

“Nothing, I suppose. If that is what you wish.”

Lalwendë sighed. She had not claimed any territory yet, not like her nephews have done, making themselves kings and ruling as such in their lands. She had felt more needed and useful here, falling back on her education of High Princess, and taking the reins of her household. She had not even thought about the possibility, at first, to own land and rule as a king did – no princess in Valinor had been raised to think about it, after all. Of course, she had had a patrimony in Valinor to serve as a future dowry, and she had figured as the formal ruler of those lands.

But in Valinor she would have been nothing more than Countess in name, albeit one of the highest rank, and would have never called herself Queen. Here in Beleriand, however, Nolofinwë had made sure things would work differently.

“What would your Captains and councillors say? I have been educated as a lady, and in their eyes I know nothing of war.”

“We both know that is untrue, for you have seen our people through one already. You are a daughter and sister to Kings, and your place is among us. I do not trust anyone else as much as you, except perhaps my children. You would be a fierce Queen, if you put your mind to it. Our people have not forgotten how you led them through the Helcaraxë and how you kept them alive after Arakáno-” he squeezed his eyes and swallowed, “while I despaired.”

“I only did what was needed,” she took his hands in hers, waiting for his momentary wave of grief to pass. When she saw his eyes open, clear and bright again, her mouth curled up in a smirk, “It is a nice feeling to have your worth not only as a woman but also as a leader recognised. Thank you, brother.”

He grinned at her, stepping closer, and pressed a kiss on her brow, “Think about it, sister.”

*

An arm encircled her waist, and a familiar scent of lily-of-the-valley revealed her owner’s identity. “What do you think of them?” were Almariel’s first words, whispered in her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, Lalwendë could see the rich dark red of her wife’s gown, with the low neckline baring a good part of her cleavage, and the gleam of a silver pendant. Eru, she was beautiful!

Despite the temptation to turn around and drag her away from the crowd for some private time, she kept her eyes firmly set upon the tall and forbidding figure of Maitimo, clad in deep green and creamy colours, who was exchanging pleasantries with Nolofinwë. Both looked alert, though not unsettled by the other’s presence, and even if they were not facing each other directly, she was sure they were both sizing the other up. It was a dance they had mastered in Finwë’s court, when, despite the tensions, there was still affection and respect in their relationship. Now, Maitimo did not hide his fangs, and Nolofinwë kept up no pretence of warmth.

If Lalwendë had not known them so well, had not seen them both at their worst, they would have fooled her now, blinding her with their impeccable manners and speech. But if she stretched the boundaries of her _fëa_ a little, she could feel how they both burned, albeit differently, at the edge of her consciousness.

_Perhaps, keeping an eye on Nolofinwë’s affairs will not be such a bad idea, after all. _

“Maitimo looks well, considering. And I am pleased to see him and Makalaure.” _And not the other brothers._

Almariel made a noise between sarcasm and assent, “Quite a show, with their warriors. Those armours and weapons must be worth a fortune.”

“They have every interest in this feast’s success. They too need to impress our allies, after all.”

“I knew he was cunning, but to see it displayed like that…”

Lalwendë hummed, “Well, he’s his father’s son, for sure.”

Cunning indeed. Maitimo had arrived escorted only by Makalaurë and a retinue of chosen warriors, all finely armoured and garbed with rich cloaks, riding in perfect formation and bearing gifts that spoke of their Lord’s munificence. It had been a show of strength and skills, as well as a guarantee of protection. If the March warden of the north had such a guard, how glorious would the whole army be! Yet, in order to maintain the northern border safe from Moringotto – and to withstand the future conflicts, it was vital to have the support of the lands and people they protected.

Moreover, by offering his alliance and fealty to Nolofinwë, and introducing himself as Maitimo Russandol, foregoing his _ataressë_ entirely, he further legitimated Nolofinwë’s claim on the kingship, prompting the Noldor to bury their resentment in front of a greater threat. In the eyes of the Moriquendi, a lord as noble and mighty as Maitimo, who commanded such a fabulous army, would not _need_ to bow to an unworthy ally and king without a good reason. (Unless he had a debt to pay and his honour was in question, which he did, but the Moriquendi did not need to know that.)

The whole ceremony had held two very different meanings for the two groups of Eldar.

She felt Almariel’s unease, and Lawen turned, searching her face, pressing a question through their bond.

“Neither of them mentioned Alqualondë,” she murmured, “Or our Doom.”

Lalwendë felt a spike of shame and sorrow worm its way under her skin. “Almariel, I-”

“No, Lalwen, say nothing, please. I don’t want to argue.”

“All right.”

*

Almariel held the office of the Seneschal of the King, as her mother had done in Finwë’s court. Aranwë, her brother, had been Nolofinwë’s closest friend, having grown up and studied together, though their relationship was fraying at the seams the longer the silence around the events in Alqualondë was kept. It was difficult to reconcile the idea of your best friend’s son being a kinslayer, when you had held that boy since he had come into the world. It was almost impossible to forgive that boy who had turned a man under your eyes, when he had led a vanguard against your father’s people. For Almariel and Aranwë’s father was Ciryaher, a famous carpenter of Alqualondë, who had crafted and designed many of the ships the Noldor had seized by force – and burned.

Nolofinwë’s decision to keep silent on the matter of Findekáno’s involvement must have felt like a slap across the face, stinging all the more for its unexpectedness. For Almariel it felt like a second betrayal.

For a long while, after Mereth Aderthad, her wife and Aranwë spent long months visiting the Falmari on the coast, with the excuse of serving as ambassador on Aranwë’s part, and of visiting and furthering her studies in a foreign court on Almariel’s. Now that Lalwendë was Queen alongside her brother, she could take up some of the Seneschal’s duties and delegate what she could not do to other functionaries who were eager to gain favour by their King.

Her absence and distance hurt.

*

[F.A. 117]

For the rest of Beleriand, Turukáno and his people had abandoned Vinyamar and the lands of Nevrast in under a year, and no one would know anything about them for many years.

Lalwendë and Nolofinwë had known the truth long before, although they had only a vague idea of Turukáno’s exact position. Almariel was devastated by the discovery, however, for her brother had left with Turukáno, taking his new wife, a Falmar, with him.

“And he told you nothing of his plans?”

Almariel shook her head, unable to even speak between her hiccups.

“Oh. That is…Oh my love, I’m so sorry,” Lalwendë embraced her fully, rocking her gently until she calmed.

“I don’t understand. How can an entire kingdom disappear? How long has he kept the secret? I don’t even know _when_ he actually left.”

Findekáno voiced the same questions when he stormed from Dor-Lómin demanding an explanation and incensed by his exclusion in his brother’s plans. The fact that Irissë had apparently followed Turukáno only made him angrier, and suspicious.

Lalwendë watched as he paced the King’s private study where they were meeting, silent and deep in thought.

“You must have known, father, or you would have turned every stone in Beleriand by now, looking for Irissë, if not for Turukáno. But no matter, what is done is done. What I want to understand, however, is _why_, in Manwë’s name, I was kept in the dark. Am I not your son and heir?”

The question was disturbing, yet Nolofinwë did not flinch when he met his son’s gaze.

“Here is your lesson, Findekáno. There are things a king is not allowed to say. Not even to his heir, not to his son, or wife. Turukáno has disappeared, and by now the whole of Beleriand, you included, knows as much as me on the matter.”

Findekáno grimaced, and turned on his heels, slamming the door behind him.

This time, Nolofinwë winced and bowed his head.

*

Later that night, when she and Almariel lay in bed, their legs entwined, her wife asked what Lalwendë had hoped she would never ask.

“Did you know?”

Whether she chose to lie or tell the truth, she would break her wife’s heart regardless. She bit her lips until she tasted blood. When her silence lasted too long, Almariel raised her head from Lalwen’s bosom and searched her gaze. “Did you?”

She felt tears prickle her eyes. “I did,” she whispered.

Almariel nodded and lay back on the mattress, turning to the other side.

Lalwendë swallowed back the tears. She was Queen, after all. And there were things a Queen was not allowed to say. Not even to her wife.

As it happened, they could not stand the distance between them for too long. Almariel too held a position of prestige and responsibility, and knew very well what discretion and secret meant for one in Lalwen’s position. Yet, Lalwendë could not help but feel as if the longer she lived in this land, the more a bone-deep weariness and apathy settled in, ever so slowly.

*

[F.A. 400]

She was fidgeting under her covers, uneasy and strangely distressed by something her conscience could not grasp, when there was a frantic knock at the door of her chambers.

Almariel grumbled, still asleep beside her. Lalwendë caressed her brown hair away from her face, kissed her brow, murmuring a reassurance, and got out of the bed, groping for her robe in the darkness of the room.

When she opened the door, one of Nolofinwë’s personal servants dropped in a hasty bow, and stammered an apology for waking her up at this hour.

“Spare me your apologies, and tell me what has happened,” she said.

“Your Grace, the King – he – I heard noises, and entered the chambers, I – I did not mean to, but I was worried, and…”

“What is wrong with the King? Did you see him?”

The servant nodded, “He was awake, but – Your Grace, he asked for – for you.”

Dread pooling in her stomach, Lalwendë all but ran to her brother’s door, the shaken servant trailing behind her.

The room was in perfect order, and the covers on the bed seemed untouched, no wrinkle visible. Her brother, however, was nowhere to be seen, though her ears caught a strange noise, as if someone was wheezing, or suffocating a wail. The window was gaping and a chilly breeze made her shiver. She went around the bed, and saw him there, curled up in himself, his head between the knees, trembling.

With a gesture of her hand, she dismissed the servant, who firmly closed the door when he exited.

She sat beside her brother, reminiscing on another time when she had seen him like this, and prayed that her instinct had been wrong.

(She remembered the anguish, the nightmares, the guilt that had followed young Arakáno’s death. She remembered how her brother had crumbled and wailed, blaming himself over and over for his failure in keeping his children safe, the last promise he had made _her_.)

Her hopes shattered when his wails became more intelligible, and she could make out his words. “She’s gone. She’s dead.”

Little Irissë. What could she say to him now?

She coaxed him into an embrace, until he could hide his face on her shoulder, and she cried with him.

*

[F.A. 456]

Lalwendë had never thought she could ever feel numb, but no other word she could find for her mood.

She had been travelling for days, slowed down by the smoke and the acrid rains that turned the air poisonous and made one feel breathless, in the direction of Dor-Lómin, where Findekáno’s court was waiting for her.

Her days as co-ruling Queen of Hithlum were ending.

She waited for the blow, the searing pain of a torn bond, the instability and sense of emptiness that would come with it. It could happen any day, any hour now.

Her brother was riding towards Thangorodrim, and she was fleeing south, bringing with her their court, their treasures, their documents. Everything that had belonged to him.

She had known since the moment he had spoken with the messenger from Dorthonion, had seen the sparkle of that fey light in his eyes – the _madness_ that, apparently, ran in their blood. He would not return from this assault. He had not _wanted_ to return.

So she had not even protested when he had disposed for her departure, and arranged the move of the entire court to Dor-Lómin. Valar knew what Findekáno had thought.

_Valar know if Findekáno too will return from the battlefield. _

She readied herself, thinking that she knew what was coming.

She was a fool.

*

[F.A. 472]

Arriving at the Falas, the first thing Lalwendë was told, was that _Fingon’s son_ was there, fostered by Lord Círdan, and that she and her wife would be welcome in the Shipwright’s own home, as kin. When she saw the young man, her first thought was that Ingoldo had, after all, followed them to Beleriand.

_That is not Findekáno son. Findekáno could have never had a son, the same way _I _cannot._

Yet, how sweet it would have been, had he been truly Findekáno’s son. He would have had, perhaps, the hair of the same shade of dark brown, and the same light grey eyes. Or his grandfather’s fine features, the sharp jaw and high cheekbones that had rendered her brother one of the most sought-after bachelors in Tírion. He would have smiled like them too, and laughed in their particular way, loud and confident, and their whole face would brighten up in delight. But he was not, although he was certainly a Finwion. Lalwendë had no time to ask any question, however, because they soon had to flee, when Moringotto attacked the Falas.

*

[F.A. 473]

She met her nephew almost by chance, when she decided she had had enough of embroidery, and went to the docks, hoping to find Círdan, or Gil-Galad. They had been working at some project for a while now, and they would spend several hours by the shipyards every day.

As she approached them, she saw Gil-Galad send a man back to their palace, and he explained that he had sent for Almariel too. Confused, Lalwendë only nodded.

When Almariel appeared and Voronwë son of Aranwë was introduced, Lalwendë could have danced for joy right there, had she been less stunned and weary.

*

“Did you know,” had asked her once Findekáno, after Nolofinwë had died, “that my father had never told me of Gondolin and Turukáno’s project, because he feared for betrayal? He was terrified that the Enemy would target and capture me, _me_! That seems like an excuse.”

_Because it was and excuse, and a pathetic one,_ had thought Lalwen. _He was terrified that you would leave him too. _

She had never told him that, and she regretted it.

*

“I am sorry, aunt, but I am sworn to secrecy. I can tell you, however, that father is well, and misses you very much. He often talks about you.”

Voronwë shared his family’s stubborn loyalty, and no word other than “sea voyage” had they been able to pry from him.

About almost everything else, however, he spoke freely and passionately. He had travelled through Nan-tathren, and told them tales of the Shepherds that inhabited the land, and of the water spirits that livened the waters. He was a pleasant companion, and soon affection grew between him and his aunts. At last, however, his ship was ready, and he departed.

*

The event left a strange aftertaste in Lalwen’s mouth. She felt as if she were missing some pieces of a puzzle too large, and with time the sensation grew stronger. She began to feel restless and unsettled, as her days were occupied only by the most simple tasks required by her station, which she could carry out almost with her eyes closed, by now. She was inactive, even if she trotted from one end of the household to the other for most of the day. Almariel felt much the same. It was as if they were back in Tírion, sheltered and kept at a distance from the places where decisions were met. A part of her wanted to rebel and confront her hosts about it. Yet, Círdan’s court had functioned for an age without her help, and she was a _guest_, no matter how high her rank, or how experienced. She would not be welcome in the council room.

She knew the world was raging around her protected walls, that the war against the Enemy continued, bitter and vicious, and she had a fair idea, by now, of what Voronwë’s mission had been. Turukáno had always looked West, when uncertain.

*

[F.A. 538]

When the refugees from the Havens of Sirion began to arrive, Lalwendë took matter into her own hands. This, she knew how to handle. The Noldor that had already settled in Balar when Hithlum and Dor-Lómin had fallen had looked up at Lalwendë for guidance in the first years, but after the centuries spent at the very gates of Angamando, their needs were few and their spirits weary with grief, so had accepted Gil-Galad’s and Círdan’s lordship without too many questions.

Lalwendë had been grieved too, and looking back, she realised how listless and detached she had been, how easily she had let others handle what should have been her prerogatives. Small wonder that she had been treated as a precious and breakable object.

Perhaps it had been the shock of what had happened, or the preparations for a military expedition, that had stirred her out of her inactivity and pushed her to _intervene_. Perhaps it had been how people had looked at her, when news of yet another kinslaying, yet another loss in her family, had reached them.

Or it was just a matter of pride that made her raise her head and _demand_ to be involved, to make herself useful. She _was_ the oldest member of her House, she had been Queen, and she had the experience in dealing with war and its aftermath.

(In truth, a little voice in her head whispered to her at night, it was the guilt she felt towards her people, for what her family had done, for how they – Fëanáro and his sons with their unholy oath and betrayal, Nolofinwë with his stubborn and desperate _honour_ – had condemned the Noldor to a Doom that once again demanded their blood.)

And Gil-Galad was – had been for years by now – High King of the Noldor, a title that had belonged to _her father and her brother_. He needed to start to act like one, because there were people older even than Lalwendë that would not so easily bow to someone who was mere decades old and did not know the inner workings of a Noldorin’s court like the back of his hand.

She felt a little uncomfortable with her manipulations, but there was work to be done, and she wanted to be there, for her people, and for herself.

*

[F.A. 545]

She ran as fast as she could to the docks as soon as the ships were sighted.

Gil-Galad looked intently at her, waiting for her confirmation – he was as incredulous as one could get, and Lalwendë could not blame him. She would be too, if she had never seen a Vala and had been born during wartime.

But the blazon on the sails was unmistakeable. The _blazons_. The High King of the Noldor in Aman, and the High Prince of the Vanyar were here.

Her brother and cousin.

The two were magnificent when they disembarked, fair headed and tall, the light of the Trees still blazing bright in their eyes. For the first time, Lalwendë realised how much the Noldor had diminished in strength in Beleriand. Moringotto’s influence on their _fëar_ was a terrifying truth to confront.

Their careful composure, however, faltered when they saw Lalwen, and it took her all her age-old experience to prevent her from jumping straight into their arms.

Arafinwë’s reunion with his daughter was less composed.

*

  
After the long days of talks and councils ended, Lalwendë managed to have her brother for herself for an evening.

“I still cannot believe that you are actually here, brother. When we saw the star appear some hoped…But this? An army, with the Ainur leading the vanguard? I can scarcely comprehend it. I thought the road West was barred.”

“Someone found it, however, and reached us,” said Arafinwë. Lalwendë studied him, noticing how _aged_ he looked. He was paler than she remembered him and thinner, his eyes darker behind the light of the Trees. _He came here to finish the war our brothers had started, with the weight of his sons’ deaths on his heart. I wonder if he feels guilty for not coming sooner._ It would be a terrible thing to ask, and Lalwen, however blunt she had always been with her siblings, had not the courage – nor the cruelty – to voice her thoughts.

She was delighted and high-spirited by her brother’s presence, yet…

Yet, no words of their sorrows and deeds had reached the Eldar of Aman before Eärendil had come, as their Doom had predicted.

Yes, Fëanáro and his madness, the kinslaying in Alqualondë… Their Doom was of their own making, but she could not help but think that the death of each innocent – Noldo or Sinda, Human or Dwarf – lay on the Valar’s conscience too.

“How is Findis? And mother?”

“They are well,” said Arafinwë at length, “They dwell in Valmar, but travel often. Lalwendë, tell me, do you have news of the sons of Fëanáro? No one mentioned them in the council, and I dared not raise the subject. Yet, I would know if they were a threat or allies in this.”

“They…Only Maedhros and Maglor remain. The others perished in the kinslayings. I doubt they have forces sufficient to be either ally or foe.”

“And is it true that they raised the Peredhil?”

“Bah, raised! They kidnapped them and held them hostages, that is what they did. But do not say that in front of the two young men. That was why no one mentioned them in the council. We would still be there fighting, and the Sindar would most certainly rebel. Be careful, Arafinwë. Celebrimbor may have forsaken his father and never sworn that oath, but he does not take insults kindly. Neither does Elros.”

Arafinwë sighed deeply, “So we are still divided, despite all…”

“I wish I could give you better news, but this is all we have. If it consoles you, some of us still looked to the West before you arrived.”

“And you, sister?”

Lalwendë met his gaze, mouth thinning in a harsh line, “I have looked West for a long time, once. Until our _brother_ did what no Elda or Vala thought possible, and died for it. I wonder if the Powers were watching and had trembled in their seats. I wonder if it has been cowardice that has kept them hidden in Aman for so long.”

“They never abandoned you or Middle-Earth!”

“And yet, look at us, brother, look at these lands. I am glad they have come, at last, do not mistake me. I am angry, however. I keep thinking that if only they had come sooner, if only it had not taken a _damned Silmaril_ to shaken them out of their complacency, thousands of lives could have been saved!”

“A war is not won with what-ifs, Lalwendë. They could not have come sooner-”

“Ha, and you believe that? Don’t you try to school me in matters of war, Arafinwë, for I have much more experience than you. Or have I forgotten your presence on the battlefield, when our brother died? Or his son? Or-” she saw him flinch, and she took a shaky breath to calm herself. “No, Arafinwë, I know what a Vala’s power can do to the land, so I can only imagine how an army of them could reduce Beleriand. I understand this.”

“But it makes things no easier, does it?”

“No it does not.”

They smiled ruefully at each other, yet somewhat comforted. Arafinwë rose from his chair and pressed a kiss on her brow, “Rest well, sister. I will need your guidance and experience soon.”

*

[F.A. 590]

She and Almariel helped Aranwë on Arafinwë’s ship, as his wife bid farewell to her family. He had lost half of his right leg during the War, and his pain had never ceased. He was weary, and he and his wife hoped to be reunited with their son, who had sailed before the War, with Idril and Tuor.

After he was settled, Almariel led her back to the dock, in silence.

Lalwendë swallowed the lump in her throat, willing herself not to cry and keep her composure, but if she looked as pained as Almariel, she was terrible at it.

“So, here we part,” and oh, how sweet and soft was her wife’s voice, laced with such tenderness, despite the distance that had marred their marriage in the last decades. “I…I am sorry, Lalwen. Now that it is happening, I feel as if I did nothing to mend our relationship, and I feel as if I am fleeing-”

“No, Almariel. Do you think I do not know how tired you are? You long for the Sea and your childhood home, and I cannot keep you here, wasting away on this shore.” _And I have kept you at a distance, despite your sacrifices to stay by my side. I have taken too much from you already._

Almariel nodded and stepped closer, her eyes flitting over Lalwen’s face, trying to imprint every line and dimple in her memory. “I will look east for the ship carrying you home, every day.”

And in that moment, Lalwendë felt as if she were again a young maiden in Valinor, when she had first realised that this woman in front of her, with her gentle heart and quick wit, would be the _one_ for her. So she did the only thing she could to express her love and longing and sadness. She kissed her there, in front of the entire host of the West on the new shore, where once was the green land of Ossiriand, now swallowed by Ulmo’s waves, when the Sun began her ascent in the sky, bathing them in her fiery light.

“Take care, my love,” whispered Lalwendë when they parted, “I will find my way back, one day.”

When the ship finally sailed, carrying back to Valinor the people Lalwendë held most dear, Gil-Galad stepped closer and offered her his arm for the walk back to their provisory hall, a crude and functional wooden building they were using as a palace, while the King’s surveyors scouted the land for a suitable place to found a new capital.

“Shall we go, aunt?”

She turned and looked up at him, his golden hair aflame in the dawn’s light, then at the small audience of relatives that had chosen to stay. The two Peredhil, who were rumoured to be Lúthien’s similar, but in whose features Lalwendë could still find traces of her line, of little Itarillë and serious Turukáno, of her dear brother and father; Celebrimbor, so painfully alike his sire in form, yet more generous than Curufinwë could have ever been (was he cursed still for his family’s deeds?); and finally Galadriel’s proud and defiant figure, tall and unyielding despite her ban.

An image flitted through Lalwendë’s mind then, her memory carrying her back to the day when Findekáno had departed from Dor-Lómin for his last battle. She could almost see him again, how he had turned his face towards the warm rays of the rising sun, closing his eyes for a moment, basking in the light and breathing in the fresh morning air. He had looked hopeful when he had kissed her brow, confident in his purpose. “_Utúlie’n aurë_,” he had murmured. His last words to her.

Smiling, Lalwendë accepted Gil-Galad’s arm, “Yes, my King. There is much to do.”

_The night has passed, at last, and the new day has come. And what a bright day it is, my dear Findekáno, my dear Nolofinwë. You would have loved it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lalwen's last words echo Fingolfin's in my other story Loyalty.


	5. Beginnings And Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I. Senseless - Elenwë discovers her feelings for Turukáno, eventually.
> 
> II. Simple - Eldalótë was a simple baker's daughter, and princes did not fall in love with commoners. Or did they?
> 
> III. Grief - Naltanis feels her son Tyelperinquar's death and seeks the comfort of someone who can understand her giref.
> 
> IV. Useless - It takes a while for Amarië to understand why Findaráto has become a stranger to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. The character of Ingalaurë mentioned here has appeared already in Chapter 3, he's Findis's son.
> 
> II. Amarië's piece is a companion to Finrod's story I wrote for Arafinwëan Week. It's not necessary to read it before this, but some things might make more sense. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**I. _Senseless_ (Elenwë)**

He was a bit awkward, Elenwë had to admit it. Too tall and not yet used to it, he nonetheless was a handsome young man, enough to send her cousin Amarië and their other friends giggling every time he simply smiled at them.

Their arrival in Valmar’s school – his, and that of his golden-haired cousin – had caused a wave of unrest among the other students, which Elenwë could not really understand. They were princes, so what? Ingalaurë was a prince too, and their cousin, yet she had never seen her friends fawn over him the way they did for the two Noldor. And Findaráto, despite his name, looked much more a Vanya than Noldo, so there was truly no reason for all the curiosity. It was senseless and frivolous, and Elenwë considered herself above such things.

She could make a concession for Turukáno, however. His dark looks, his quietness marked him as foreign, and it kind of made sense – in a way – that people would be curious of him. Not that she was.

She looked from the giggling group sat around the fountain to the pencil she was twirling in her hands, wondering why she felt the need to keep her distance from her friends. She had never felt so out of place, so annoyed by some of them. Her grip on the pencil tightened as she saw Turukáno blush when one of the girls placed a hand on his forearm. _Stupid_.

“What has you so pensive, my friend?”

Laurefindil’s mane of unruly curls obstructed her view of the two princes, for which Elenwë was as grateful as she was disappointed. She bit her lips and smoothed the pages of notes she was crumpling in her hands. She was here to complete some work, nothing else. “I’m just trying to figure out these exercises.”

Laurefindil threw himself on the grass beside her, reaching for the notes, “Let me see? Oh, it’s mathematics.”

“Yes, and you’re useless at it, so…”

He grinned at her, “You know who has a head for these kind of things?” he jerked his head in the direction of the two princes, “They do.”

Elenwë huffed, “I won’t ask them.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged and snatched the notes back, “It doesn’t matter. I need to hand them in tomorrow anyway, so I don’t have time.” She got up and smoothed her skirts, brushing away the blades of grass that got stuck on it, and shoved the notes in her bag.

“And where are you going now?”

“Back inside. I need a clear head and some silence if I want to complete these exercises.” She turned around without waiting for his answer.

*

As she had expected, her exercises were a complete mess and her teacher was far from pleased. She should have not taken it so hard as she did, yet this time her failure made her feel utterly miserable, to the point that, as soon as her teacher had assigned her a double amount of homework and dismissed her with a disappointed face, she had ran to the most secluded room in the library, three books and all of her notes spread open in front of her, had sat down and begun to cry.

It made no sense. She had never been that bad, she had never cared so much about her results as today. She felt wrung out, disappointed in herself and utterly alone. She was sure that the others were laughing at her and at the spectacle she had just made of herself. _Look at Elenwë! She acts all high and mighty and yet runs away crying like a baby. _

She did not hear the creak of the door, or the shuffling steps, until a voice interrupted her sniffling.

“Elenwë?”

She startled so violently, she let out a yelp and slammed an elbow on the table. Looking up, her heart jumped in her throat as she saw _his _face. What was he doing here? _Oh Valar, I look terrible and he’s here. What do I do?_

“I’m so sorry for startling you, I didn’t mean to – that is, I-” he floundered, blushing to the tip of his ears, “Are you hurt?”.

She shook her head and cleared her throat, “Do you need something?”

Turukáno pointed at the books, “Laurefindil said that you needed a hand with this,” he shuffled with his feet, “I could help you, if you want.”

He gave her such a hopeful and honest look that she felt more tears rise and tried in vain to dry then with the back of her hand. She nodded at him and indicated the unoccupied seat beside her.

He sat down and fumbled a while in his pockets, retrieving a handkerchief and offering it to her. It was lovely, pale blue with small yellow flowers dotting its corners, his initials embroidered in gold.

“I can’t use this, I’ll ruin it,” she said.

He shrugged, but smiled so sweetly that Elenwë felt her resistance crumble. She would do anything he asked, if he smiled like that for her. “Keep it,” he said.

*

She did keep the handkerchief, in the end. Every time she had tried to give it back, or had succeeded in it, he would find a way to place it again in her hands. And when he had come to say goodbye the day before his return to Tírion, and she had tried once again to return it, he simply took her hands in his, and with an adorable blush told her to keep it for him, and to return it when she next came to Tírion.

Elenwë could not remember what she had answered, but she recalled perfectly well how her heart had squeezed, her belly had fluttered like butterfly wings, and all she had been able to think in that moment had been how she would have wanted to kiss that smile. _Senseless._

_*_

**II. _Simple_ (Eldalótë)  
**

She was a simple baker’s daughter. A normal girl, born in the city and working there, in her parents’ pastry-shop with her sisters. And true, theirs was not a simple pastry-shop, but was considered one of the best in the city and could boast of having catered for several of the Palace’s feasts.

So it was no surprise that they had many customers, especially this close to the Harvest Festival in honour of Yavanna Kementári. What Eldalótë did not expect was such a crowd to form in front of their windows that morning. She had just finished sweeping the floor behind the counter, while one of her sisters was busy arranging the fresh biscuits and pastries, and the other was looking over the last batch of bread in the ovens, when she noticed the group of curious passers-by huddled together, pointing at the shop and nodding their heads.

_They look like pigeons_, she thought at first, and giggled. Hopefully they would enter soon, when the brioches were still warm. Customers were much more inclined to buy more and return if their bellies were full with good food.

So she went about the shop, arranging the decorations and smiling at the usual customers that came in for their breakfast, thinking nothing of the group of people she had seen.

After a couple of hours, however, another group appeared, and some entered the shop, asking after their new kind of soft bread, the recipe of which Eldalótë had perfected not even a week before. She had just sold a dozen rolls when another group of people entered, wanting the same thing. And then another, until the shop was quite crowded and the three sisters barely managed to meet all the requests.

An excited voice reached Eldalótë’s ears, and she grinned in delight at the newcomer who was elbowing her way to the counter, dragging two tall men behind her, one with a mane of fair hair, the other sharing her dark locks.

“Good day, my lady!” said Eldalótë.

“Good day to you! I see you’re quite busy,” said Irissë, and waved at the other two sisters, “I hope you’ve put some of those rolls of yours aside for me.”

“Of course, my lady, you had the good sense to ask for it in advance. I don’t know what happened, but-” she raised her hands in defeat, “We can’t complain, though.”

Irissë laughed, and many heads turned to her as a hush spread through the crowd. Eldalótë felt her face flare when every eye went from her to the three royals. Someone even shuffled back, surrendering their place in the queue to the princes, but they seemed more uncomfortable at that than they had any right to be. Eldalótë would have found it endearing, considering how the two blushed, had she not taken a good look at Irissë’s companions, and had the beauty of the fair-haired prince robbed her of her breath.

“Let me just-” she fumbled under the counter, retrieving a bundle of wrapped cloth with four loaves inside, “They are still warm, I think.”

“Thank you, Eldalótë, you’re a dear,” Irissë took the bundle and nudged the blond prince with her elbow. With a suffering sigh, sweetened by the fond expression on his face, he took out the money.

“Oh, before I forget my manners, Lotë, these here are my baby brother Arakáno,” she indicated the tall dark-haired young man behind her, who shared much of her fine features, “and this gentleman here is my cousin Angaráto.”

“The appointed baby-sitter,” he commented, which earned him another poke in the ribs and an affronted exclamation from the two siblings. He turned to her with the money and regaled her with a dazzling smile that made his sharp features stand out even more.

“You see, I have brought along another cousin, Curufinwë over there,” Irissë gestured to the dark shape that was pacing outside the windows, “But he is afraid of crowds, so he sulks outside,” she winked conspiratorially to Eldalótë, “I just _had _to bring them here in person, they would not believe neither me or Finno when I told them that your new kind of bread was so good, it reminded us that which our grandmother bakes during the days of feast.”

Eldalótë gaped, “That is too much, my lady! Mine is a simple sweet roll, nothing as – as _that_.”

“But it’s true, and I should know!” she leaned closer over the counter, “Why do you think all these people are here? A good word here and there…”

“You are too kind, my lady.”

“I consider you a friend, Lotë. I don’t mind helping you.”

Angaráto cleared his throat, “Speaking of which, we should let the lady work, Irissë.”

“Oh you’re right. Sorry!”

In a flurry of white skirts and heartfelt goodbyes, the three hurried out of the shop, leaving a confused crowd and an overwhelmed Eldalótë behind them.

*

The next day, Eldalótë found a prince on the doorstep of the shop as soon as it opened. It was Angaráto. He praised her recipe and purchased another basket of her special bread, then paid with more coins than he should have, and left. The day after that, he did the same.

On the third day, Eldalótë was prepared for his visit, and she slipped a packet of sweet butter biscuits in his basked when he was not looking. They went on like this for a while, his brief visits becoming a routine Eldalótë looked forward to, and day by day she learned small things about him.

His sister was the same age of Irissë, and as much of a terror as she. He liked dark chocolate but could not suffer raisins. He loved horses, but was secretly terrified of spiders. He had had a nightmare about them when he was a child, something about gigantic spiders roaming through a forest – Eldalótë still shuddered if she thought about it. He smiled more with his eyes, which were a blue so pale they almost seemed white, and despite his name – his _epessë_, Angamaitë, gained because of his prowess in the athletic games – his hands were long and elegant.

He was a dangerous beauty, she thought. They could become friends, she supposed, but nothing more. She was a simple backer’s daughter, after all. Princes did not fall in love with commoners.

She struggled to silence the voice in her head that reminded her of their Crown Prince who had, indeed, married a simple blacksmith’s daughter. Not everyone could be that lucky.

Yet, one day he brought her a bunch of tulips and asked her whether she would go to the Harvest Festival with him. And who was Eldalótë to deny him?

*

**III. _Grief_ (Naltanis)**

[S. A. 1697]

She woke up suddenly to the sound of thunder and rain pouring on the roof. A strong wind made the shutters creak. Its whistle was like the cry of a wolf or a great beast, out there on the plains or up in the mountains, soulful and heart wrenching. Her nightgown was damp and clung to her skin, stifling. She threw back her covers in a fit of annoyance but she regretted immediately as the cold in the room hit her. With unsteady hands she tried to dry the tears that were still flowing down her cheeks, mingled with sweat and sticking hair.

She had the urge to move, to get out of the bed and run, but her limbs were heavy and out of her control, trembling and jerking, leaving her exhausted. A deep ache was in her chest and she knew, though her mind struggled to deny it, coming up with every possible explanation for her state except the truth. But she knew.

She would not be able to sleep now, and she could not bear to stay alone in the house, where every shadow and small noise had her jumping in fear. If she stayed there, she would go crazy. She was not sure what she was looking for, if maternal comfort or the company of someone that knew intimately the same grief as hers. Or neither, maybe she was just afraid of herself, of not having the strength to do anything more than curl on the bed and let herself fade, if she did not get out and seek company.

*

In front of the door of the quaint two-story house – and it was indeed a nice house, so well kept and decorated that it felt welcoming even in the middle of the night, under this frightening thunderstorm – she hesitated. What a lunatic she must seem! Showing up this late, drenched and shivering, to her mother-in-law’s house. But there was no chance of turning back now. The mere idea of spending another two hours walking under the rain strengthened her resolve, and she knocked.

It might have occurred to her, had she been in a better state of mind, that she ought to give at least a reason for why she had shown up unannounced in such a state. Yet, as she waited for someone to answer the door – if someone was awake at all, and had heard her knocking – her sole goal was to escape the damned cold and loneliness of her own house. Her mind was completely blank, as she shivered under her mantel. She felt tired, old.

Her wait was not long. The front door opened slowly; all she could see at first was the warm, welcoming light coming from the corridor inside.

Nerdanel did not seem surprised – there was no widening of eyes, no gaping mouth, no sound from her lips. Her mother-in-law simply stood there a moment, taking in her sorry state, before further opening the door as she stepped aside to allow her to enter.

Naltanis took some hesitant steps inside. Her legs felt heavy and her feet dragged on the polished floor, staining it with mud and wet leaves. She stared at the mess and murmured some words of apology, but Nerdanel waved her hand, “Take off your boots, and don’t worry about it. I will take care of it later.”

Naltanis nodded numbly, bending down to untie the knots on her boots, when her head felt suddenly warm and light. All she could see was a strange darkness creeping up on her, as she heard blood rushing in her ears. A headache had her temples aching and she felt so terribly weak that her legs folded underneath her and she fell without a sound.

Two strong hands prevented her form slamming on the floor. “Careful, careful,” said Nerdanel in her soft voice, “Here, let me.” She sat beside her and helped her undress, as Naltanis observed her actions with detachment. She was numb and cold, and had no desire of standing up again. She wondered if it would matter to anyone if she just stayed there on the floor, curling in herself and disappearing.

Nerdanel’s hands were warm on her cheeks, when she drew Naltanis’s head to her, “You are exhausted, my dear,” she frowned, “and probably have a temperature. A warm bath is what you need.”

A whimper left Naltanis’s lips, “He’s gone.”

She barely felt Nerdanel move her around, lift her and drag her to the bathroom in a silence that hung heavy between them. Naltanis had not the energy to break it.

*

Almost a week later, she was pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen table – a small plain one, very different from the table Naltanis remembered seeing in Nerdanel and Fëanáro’s old house, made from sturdy and heavy wood, exquisitely carved and large enough for ten people. It was not hard to imagine the loneliness Nerdanel must have felt – still felt – as she sat for every meal at this demure table, in silence, no other sound keeping her company but that of her own cutlery.

No exchange of warm secret smiles with a husband, no happy chatter of a child who could not stay still for a second more than necessary, before he absolutely had to run outside, go back to his toys and tools…

She closed her fists, her nails digging painfully in her palms. Nerdanel and Fëanáro had been estranged well before the Darkening; she probably did not want her husband back in her own house.

“Was Curufinwë a wicked man? I cannot reconcile the man I married with the fey creature of the tales.”

A mother should not have the doubt Naltanis saw flicker in Nerdanel’s eyes. _She should not, she should not!_

“Tyelpe had worshipped his father. For him to renounce Curufinwë…what happened to them, Nerdanel? Is it the influence of Moringotto upon that accursed land that has poisoned their minds?”

“I don’t have answers for you, my dear. I wish I could say something, I wish for many things, but…”

But wishes were not for women like them, who had married into the wrong family, on the wrong side of history. They could cry and plead all they wanted, but their voice mattered as little as that of their dead husbands and sons. Nerdanel seemed resigned, and that unsettled her more than anything.

“I have never wanted to go to the East, not even when I felt Curufinwë die and knew that my son was alone. I knew, I was certain that he would have been able to take care of himself, to gain renown thanks to his skills – and I am sure he did. I know it deep into my heart, as I know that he is innocent, from kinslaying, from willingly collaborating with the Enemy, from every wicked deed that spiteful and vicious mouths attribute to Fëanáro and his sons, my husband included.

But I felt his pain during these past years, a pain like I have never experienced before, and it terrifies me. Every instinct of mine had told me _he needs you there, he is in pain, he is in danger_ but…something, I don’t know what that is, has kept me here – call it fate, call it my poor judgment.” She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, knowing it was a futile attempt. She was crying again, yet she doubted Nerdanel would mind her distress. “Now?” she continued, “Now I know, he is dead, and I was not there. And it tears me apart, Nerdanel, it breaks me. I have never felt rage like this.

If I were not the coward I am, if Fëanáro or Curufinwë were here and were to tell me to go and wage war, a part of me would go. For vengeance, yes. But also, again, because of the ineptitude of the Valar. Moringotto had been vanquished, they had said. He is in the Void. Yet, yet! Who could have inflicted such a torment on an Elda – and not a mere one, but Tyelperinquar – if not one of his cruel, revolting servants? I am sure of it. He took away my son. My own child. Why did he have to suffer the curse of his house, when he had done nothing? What kind of judgment is that, how can I trust someone that judges like that?”

“Give yourself time to grieve, Naltanis. There’s little else we can do.”

Naltanis looked at Nerdanel, unsure. She sounded weary, tired beyond belief and Naltanis was hit by a stab of guilt. He mother-in-law did not need to deal with her grief, her rage. A small part of her – and she was terribly ashamed to admit it – was annoyed and Nerdanel’s apparent apathy, like an itch under her skin she could not scratch. Nerdanel was just there, sitting at the kitchen table, with the tea gone cold in front of her, her eyes present if a bit vacant, as if it were a mere afternoon tea, of which she was slightly bored.

Naltanis wanted to shake her, wanted to see her do something else, other that existing in this limbo, not really present, not yet gone beyond the world of the living. She knew Nerdanel was grieving in a different way – had been grieving for longer, far longer than her.

She was tired of waiting helplessly around, for someone else to die, for the Valar to give a sign – yet, it would be her curse. No husband and no child she had now, and she was not sure if she would see them again anytime soon.

*

**IV. _Useless_ (Amarië)**

It was difficult to see him again, hale and yet aged, and not knowing what to do. They had no experience for this. She did not know whom to turn to, and she had no idea how to help him.

Her visits used to go like this. She would make some polite conversation, mostly one-sided, while he tried to humour her, although she could well see how his mind was an ocean away. He would then say something, nothing too important, just a passing comment, and she would begin to feel inadequate, ignorant. Sensing her distress, he would pick up again the inane conversation, while her mind drifted. They would then greet each other, with a promise to visit soon, and almost a year would pass, before they began the dance again.

Sometimes she tried to visit more frequently, but either she was terribly unlucky, or he was purposefully avoiding her, because he was often away on some journey. Eärwen was not one for pity, and Amarië was grateful for it, otherwise she would not have been able to suffer the way she treated her as a daughter when she stayed by her, waiting in vain for him to return soon.

But when she had seen him trying to sneak out of Tírion, after she had heard rumours of another impending departure, she had felt a stab of betrayal so strong, she might have screamed, or punched him, had not her brother been there to support her.

She hated herself. She hated how he made her feel, because, after all the years spent apart, despite his insensibility – as her brother named his lack of consideration for her feelings – as soon as he turned and she caught a glimpse of his haunted expression, the flash of pain and desperation in his eyes, she knew she would let him go, if that made him feel better. She would let him set the pace, find himself first, and she would wait, again. She did not tell him this, however, and she read his doubts on his face, although she knew he spoke the truth when he confessed his love.

*

It was his sister that suggested she wrote to him. He had been gone for two years by now, and no one had any idea where he was. Galadriel perhaps knew, but she kept his secrets, and even pressing for details or trying to trick her into revealing something was absolutely useless.

“He will return when he will feel ready to do so. What he is looking for cannot be found in Tírion, and perhaps not even among the Eldar. Have patience, Amarië.”

“I have waited for him for two ages, Galadriel. Is he avoiding me?”

“I know you waited, and I know it was difficult. But try to understand his position-”

“I am trying, I have been trying all this time. And I would understand him better, perhaps, if he would only tell me something – not that I expect him to open up to me and confess everything that has happened and had traumatised him, I know better than that, now.

Yet, I feel as if you are all trying to shield me from him, and telling me to have patience, without explaining me a single thing, as if I weren’t, I don’t know, old enough or strong enough to understand it. I have heard the tales, yet he was – is – more to me than a prince in a song. He would have been my husband, and sometimes I think that if we were married, perhaps I could have helped him better, I could have given him what he needs. Instead there is this gulf between us, and I am tired, Galadriel, so tired of it, of feeling, well, useless.” She slumped in her chair and drew the knees to her chest, realising for the first time that her face was wet with tears.

Galadriel placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Have you told him this?”

Amarië shook her head. “Well, then I have an idea.”

*

_Dear Findaráto,_

_Your sister convinced me to put my thoughts and feelings to paper, and even if I am not sure about the outcome of this, I will try. _

_What happened to us? How is it that we have drifted so far apart that you feel the need to run away from me? _

_ <strike>Am I a worthless, annoying, shallow woman, that you feel no regret in discarding me and my feelings so?</strike> _

_I am just angry, at you, at myself, at everyone. This is useless._

_*_

_Findaráto,_

_I think I will always love you. But I’m not sure if I would marry you. Ever. _

_ <strike>At this point I think that you won’t ever marry me, </strike> _

_Why am I even doing this?_

_*_

_Dear Findaráto,_

_I began to work at the Houses of Healing. I never thought that in Aman there would be such a great need for them, and yet, every helping hand is welcome, and the patients are numerous. War veterans, former thralls, people who have lost a loved one and don’t know how to cope. Estë and her Maiar, of course, treat the most difficult cases, but for the rest there are our healers. Lord Elrond has visited and introduced a number of new treatments that have proved to be essential. I feel I have much to learn. _

_ <strike>Perhaps I will learn something about you too.</strike> _

_*_

_Dear Findaráto,_

_Five years have passed now since your departure, and three since I began my studies as a healer. Yesterday a man came looking for help against some horrible nightmares. He would refuse to speak about them, or about how they had begun, but fortunately this is something we know exactly how to treat. He looked so lost and lonely, I wonder if he has a family…_

_*_

_Dear Findaráto,_

_The man that came six months ago is Edrahil, one of your faithful companions. He began to open up about his nightmares some time ago, and – I don’t know what to say. He is the first case of this difficulty that I’m following, and I don’t know if it is some strange twist of fate that has led him to _me_. I promise you that I will do my best for him. _

_ <strike>What horrors did you endure, my love?</strike> _

_*_

_Dearest Findaráto,_

_Edrahil is getting better every day. And I with him. Gone is the anger, the bitterness. Making myself useful, seeing all these people who need our help – nothing extraordinary, sometimes a kind word or gesture are enough to brighten their day – has made me look at the world in a different way. I can’t make sense of this suffering, but I know now that it is possible to reach them behind the darkness that has a hold on their hearts and minds. _

_I think I will ask Lord Elrond to take me under his wing and teach me. _

_*_

_My dearest Findaráto,_

_The Queen your mother has sent me your letter here – of course, you could not have known that I was in Tol Eressëa for my studies. I am happy to learn of your imminent return, however I cannot travel to meet you in Tírion. If you wish to see me, I believe that Lord Elrond will be more than pleased to welcome you here. You ask me what happened during these years, yet, how can I tell you all of it in but a couple of pages? I have decided to send you my “diary” instead, so that you can read it for yourself. _

_I believe that apologies are better delivered in person, so I wait eagerly for your visit._

_Faithfully yours,_

_Amarië._


End file.
